"Sir, I... I didn't know," Ryan sputtered, sweat mixing with the rain on his forehead. "She... she didn't look like... She's wearing a hoodie, sir. She looked like..." "She looked like a what, Ryan?" Marcel cut him off. "Careful. The next words out of your mouth will determine if you just get fired or if I make sure you never fly a kite again, let alone a jet." Ryan looked at Alara. Really looked at her. He saw the intelligence now. He saw the power and he realized that the hoodie wasn't a sign of poverty. It was a sign of someone so wealthy they didn't need to impress anyone.
"I... I made a mistake, sir," Ryan whispered. "Hand the phone back to Ms. Banks," Marcel ordered. Ryan handed the phone back to Alara with two hands, bowing his head. He looked like a dog that had been kicked. "I'm here, Marcel," Alara said, putting the phone back to her ear. "Alara, I am mortified," Marcel said. "I can have a replacement crew there in 45 minutes. I'll fly them in by helicopter from JFK. Just say the word."
Alara looked at Ryan, who was now trembling. She looked at Tara, who was frantically trying to delete the video she had just taken. "No, Marcel," Alara said. "I don't want to wait 45 minutes. I want to get to Paris. I have a meeting." "Okay," Marcel said. "So, you're going to fly with them?" "Oh, I'm going to fly," Alara said, a cold smile finally touching her lips. "But things are going to be very different on this flight. I'm boarding now. Don't hang up."
Alara ended the call. But she didn't put the phone away. She looked at Ryan. "Get out of my way," she said softly. Ryan scrambled aside, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Ms. Banks, please, I..." "Not a word," she silenced him with a finger. "Get inside. Get in the cockpit. Start the engines. If you say one word to me that isn't altitude or air speed, you're done." She walked up the stairs, her muddy sneakers stomping onto the plush cream-colored carpet of the cabin.
She stopped in the galley and turned to Tara. Tara was shaking. "Ms. Banks, I am so sorry. I just thought..." Alara looked at Tara's perfect uniform, then down at her own wet clothes. "Here is what is going to happen," Alara said. "I am going to the master bedroom to change. You are going to take my wet clothes, and you are going to dry them. By hand. With a hair dryer if you have to. And then you are going to sit in the jump seat and you are not going to speak to me for the entire 7-hour flight. Is that clear?" "Yes, Mom," Tara squeaked. "Good," Alara said. "Because when we land in Paris, that's when the real conversation starts."
The flight to Paris was usually Alara's sanctuary. It was 7 hours where no one could reach her. No board members could demand answers and the phone didn't ring. But tonight, the atmosphere inside the Obsidian King was toxic. The cabin was pressurized to a comfortable 4,000 ft, but the tension made the air feel thin and suffocating.
Alara had changed out of her wet clothes. She now wore a simple cashmere lounge set, cream-colored, soft, and impeccably clean. She sat in the main club suite, her laptop open, but the screen was dark. She wasn't working. She was watching. Tara Blair emerged from the galley. She had reapplied her lipstick, but her hands were visibly trembling. She carried a silver tray with a crystal flute of Krug Grande Cuvée and a small plate of warm nuts.
"Ms. Banks," Tara said, her voice pitched high in a desperate attempt at customer service cheerfulness. "I... I prepared the vintage champagne you prefer and the macadamia nuts are warmed to exactly 90°, just how the flight manual specifies." Alara didn't look at the tray. She looked at Tara's eyes. "Put it down," Alara said, her voice devoid of emotion. Tara set the tray down on the side table. The crystal clinked loudly in the silent cabin. "Is there... Is there anything else I can get you? I could prepare the bed in the state room. Or perhaps a hot stone massage. I'm certified."
Alara finally turned her head. "Tara, do you know why I bought this specific jet?" Tara swallowed hard. "Because... Because it's the best." "Because it has a range of 7,700 nautical miles," Alara said. "It allows me to fly from New York to Beijing without stopping. It is a machine designed for efficiency. It does exactly what it is paid to do." She paused letting the silence stretch. "Unlike you." Tara flinched. "Ms. Banks, about side. I was just following Captain Sterling's lead. He told me you were a security threat. I was scared. I didn't mean those things."
Alara laughed softly. It wasn't a nice laugh. "You called me trashy for your Instagram followers. That wasn't fair, Tara. That was entertainment. You looked at a black woman in a hoodie and decided she was content for your social media feed." Alara picked up the glass of champagne. She held it up to the light inspecting the bubbles. "Unlock your phone," Alara said. "Excuse me?" "Your phone. Unlock it and give it to me."
Tara hesitated, her eyes darting to the cockpit door as if hoping Ryan would come out and save her. But Ryan was hiding behind the reinforced door, probably flying the plane with sweaty palms. Tara slowly pulled her phone from her pocket, unlocked it with her face ID, and handed it over. Alara took the phone. She opened Instagram. She went to the recently deleted folder. And there it was. The video of Alara standing in the rain. Tara had deleted it, but she hadn't wiped the backup. Alara hit restore.
"What are you doing?" Tara whispered, panic rising. "I'm airdropping this to my laptop," Alara said calmly. "Evidence." "Ms. Banks, please. I'll lose my license. I'll be blacklisted," Tara pleaded, tears finally spilling over. "You should have thought about that before you tried to humiliate me," Alara said. She handed the phone back. "Now go to the galley. Close the curtain. Do not come out unless the plane is on fire. I will pour my own water." Tara fled. She practically ran to the back of the plane, and Alara heard the aggressive swish of the heavy privacy curtain being yanked shut.